


the state of my heart (he was my best friend)

by voltemand



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26327194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voltemand/pseuds/voltemand
Summary: So, the axioms of Stewy: 1. touching Kendall, 2. getting away with it.
Relationships: Stewy Hosseini/Kendall Roy
Comments: 9
Kudos: 57





	the state of my heart (he was my best friend)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades Is Out to Get Us!” by Sufjan Stevens.

Stewy’s like some sort of half-hearted sexual harasser, D-list Roger Ailes type shit (or Kendall’s dad, but perish the fucking thought). Weird soft little pats and his eyelashes on Ken’s shoulder fluttering like a monarch (heir apparent) butterfly. You know the drill. Jesus. 

(If Kendall’s going to be honest with you, and he is an honest man (if not honorable, but Marc Antony can fuck right off), sometimes he’ll be the one with his hand on Stewy’s back, initiating, you know. He’s got the steering wheel. It’s different, though—everything with Stewy is hyper-clear, neon. Fluorescent. He knows. It’s never really Ken’s fault.)

But Stewy being obnoxious as shit doesn’t matter most of the time because he’ll do his Victorian child routine, all soft eyes and whatever. Dim the lights. Pull the curtains. Blow some smoke, the plumes white and feathered. They’d make a good coat.

So, the axioms of Stewy: 1. touching Kendall, 2. getting away with it. 

\--

“Okay,” Kendall mumbled once, his words slurring together like water swirling around a rusty drain, “Stew, how old are we?”

Stewy looked at him, laughed. Patted him on the back, his hand solid and warm. “What kind of stupid fucking question is that?”

Kendall said, petulant, a little bratty (he was getting too old for that, but wasn’t the point that he had always been old?), “I _mean_. We’re kind of aging, dude. Our lives are getting shat out of the asshole of time.” 

“Gross.” Stewy made a face, then smiled. Ken tried not to look too much at Stewy back then, but he remembers now: bright eyes and bouncing curls. A ring shone on Stewy’s finger as he fluttered it toward Kendall. “Hey, whaddya say we drink to forget our troubles? Or whatever the hell. Drown ourselves in ambrosia and motherfucking nectar.” He cocked his head, then lightly rested it on Kendall’s shoulder. “You game?”

Ken was. He’d been game for it all.

\--

Harvard was great. Buildings solid red brick, shithouse-style, an amalgamation of all of the Kennedy clan’s steadfast northeastern wet dreams. Girls pretty in a neurotic way, brunette and well-heeled. Stewy at his side, grabbing his arm and dragging him around, cracking wise and smoking all the time, the cigarette floppy and glowing orange between his lips.

There was this one party. Well, there were a lot of parties. They made sure of that. But this one party, spring of junior year, Ken saw Stewy with a girl.

Before that, he had known that Stewy fucked. Of course he did. Stewy was loud, had machismo, or whatever. Not machismo—charisma. He yelled in a way that made you like him, only it wasn’t yelling when he did it. Still isn’t. But this girl was something else—skinny, long and leggy and coltish. Huge eyes. Ken wanted her. Everyone in the room must have wanted her.

Stewy walked up then, his hand around her waist. Purposeful. His fingers drummed out something, and Kendall knew Stewy didn't have the patience to learn Morse code, but for a split second, he wondered.

“Ken,” Stewy said. Had said. Was—is—still saying, maybe. “Meet Rava.”

\--

Kendall knows he fucked up. Oh, you want specifics? You want him to reveal all? Spill the proverbial beans? If you’re so eager. Okay, he fucked up with Rava. Let him count the ways. Never mind, there are too many. Here’s one, then. You’ll have seen enough.

His wedding. Rava was hot to the touch, hot all over, giggling and tinted gold. They had been college sweethearts; of course, they married, her beautiful and him rich and their families smiling. White teeth and the whites of their eyes. And then, white powder. Driven snow. Looks like spun sugar, and it’s just as sweet. A sugar high, that’s all. The words repeat, looping over and over again, even now. You can’t test someone’s blood for a memory, but Kendall thinks he would pass with flying colors. 

Stewy was the best man, of course. A little twitchy, a little unsettled. At the toast, his fingers were loose around his glass, looser still when he took Kendall’s hand in his, raised both their arms in the air. His lips, though, were sealed tight.

Champagne is golden, but coke is white.

\--

Ken told you earlier that Stewy has soft eyes, but that isn’t quite right. He’s not cute or open; there’s nothing canine about him. Stewy goes hard, or he doesn’t go at all. Like, remember Stewy’s betrayal. You need to remember it. Remember a voice on the phone. You know that voice. You’ve known it your entire life.

But you’re not Kendall, you can’t get it. It’s like this: Stewy has always been there. He and Ken are linked, handcuffed, you know. Eminem driving his wife and his baby into a river. Inexorable fall off the cliff. You remember how the wind rushes past your ears; you don’t remember the impact when you crumple onto the ground, into the ocean, out of your life.

 _You fucked me like a tied goat_ , Ken had said. It wasn’t a hiss—he couldn’t hiss then; words were too fat in his mouth for that; they waddled—but it was an indictment. A verdict. He’s never really understood the difference. _Fucked_. Accurate enough.

\--

Kendall has more stories. Too many, maybe. He can tell you what happened when Iverson was born, or when he first went to rehab. The dog cage, though Roman tells that better. But time’s running out. You can pick the last one. You’d rather we choose? Fine. Harvard again? Okay.

Let’s set the scene. Sweater eaten by a brown moth. Lips not yet kissed by a red mouth. Calendar pages falling away to an orange month. November of nineteen-ninety-nine and living felt like being burned at the fucking stake.

They were roommates. Cliché, really, high school best friends who had a falling-out, had dozens of falling-outs, only theirs never lasted. They’d been lying in their beds. The ceiling was cavernous and the room was quiet. Kendall was crying. (We forgot to mention that. Ken cried a lot back then.)

Stewy rolled over. Ken saw him in his peripheral vision: his eyes dark and gleaming, his body illuminated only by the desk lamp. “Are you,” Stewy said. “Are you _okay_?”

Kendall breathed in and out, felt everything expand, waited for the inevitable collapse. He was nineteen, so his chest felt like an apt metaphor for his life. “Yeah.” He sat up, inched his back against the wall, discreetly wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I’m fucking platinum, baby. Minos, but, like, only with myself.”

“No, you’re not.” Stewy’s voice was quiet, coaxing. Like, let’s feed the fucking lion. Get blood on his mouth, blood everywhere. “I don’t think you are, bro.” He slid off his bed; in a flash, he was sitting on Ken’s, facing him. “I don’t think you are. Bring it in.” His arms were around Kendall’s shoulders, around his waist. Ken noticed dazedly that Stewy had very long eyelashes.

“I got you,” Stewy murmured. His hands traced the topography of Kendall’s back. “I got you.”

And back then, at least, he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Yell with me on Tumblr at [withatalentforsquaddrill](https://withatalentforsquaddrill.tumblr.com) (for general bullshit) or [foresme](https://foresme.tumblr.com) (for fandom bullshit).


End file.
